


Time's Afoul

by certainlyjim



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt!Jim, Hurt!Spock, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:45:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certainlyjim/pseuds/certainlyjim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Enterprise, on a survey mission; an uninhabited planet, and the crew acting odd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time's Afoul

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: unbeta'd  
> more of a snap shot, than anything (im sorry if its a giant confusing mess)

Spock comes slow up the rise, Dr. McCoy and medbay staff distracted by the unconscious crewmen and women lying on their stretchers. It is not bleak as he walks, the wind of the planet is warm, almost crisp in its touch, the gravel at his feet, crunching quietly, red sunlight masking the darkening sky, not yet past noon. He hears Dr. McCoy shout indistinct into the warm wind, and he looks back.

Dr. McCoy stands apart from the activity he commands, almost beseeching in the arms he holds up from so far away, because he will come no closer— it is not because he does not want to, Spock knows him, knows he wishes to be at Spock’s shoulder, with Spock. Spock slips his comm from his belt, orders him to beam up; there is nothing he can do. Spock watches the arms full of tricorder and hypo fall to the doctor’s sides, stiff shoulders crumble under a weight, Spock is capable of understanding, no matter how he may not wish to.

Spock returns the comm to his belt, the dull energetic beam-up a noise he only hears walking further up the rise. A rise over looking an empty valley, stretching into the dark horizon, the sun to the left. He stops away from the ragged cliff face, feels the wind again, feels two of the toes on his left crunch and break. Breathes out an automatic intake of harshness. He feels the solid air of impatience bare down, the tangibility that is impossible. The tangibility that is not what it feels.

He takes steps closer to the edge, shadow darkening, presses his left arm under Jims’, curls around Jim’s abdomen, feels the scratch of Jim’s hair on his face.

Jim stands at the precipice, arms loose at his side, overlooking the empty valley, and Spock brings his right hand to Jim’s meld points. The activity of a mind is absent, and Spock breathes, breathes, breathes, Jim is not gone; none of the other infected had gone.

None of the affected had gone so far. None of the affected spent so much time on the planet, none of them fought so hard. 

Spock tightens around Jim, tests the strength of a body that is at odds with itself. He needs— it is necessary to move away from this cliff. Jim leans forwards, Spock stiffens, stops pulling back. Adjusts his fingers, Jim’s skin cool under them, and he continues unrelenting. Spock can feel Jim knows something is wrong, something that does not articulate itself, yet is undeniably wrong, a mistake, does not belong.

This feeling of quiet fear, he shares with Jim, it runs through the veins of their body guided by instinct, the prey that realizes it is no longer the predator, and can do nothing. Can do nothing within its physiological abilities to lengthen its life, deny its early mortality.

It is this, which brought Jim here to the figurative made literal, this that Spock feels still his body, tighten muscles, there is only one way to escape of choices made of free will, and not controlled.

Spock shifts, chest against Jim’s back, whispers, he does not have the strength to speak, his left leg has broken, his right arm; that pressure of impatience.

Whispers for Jim to continue fighting, because he is not wrong, not wrong, Jim. There is intelligent life on this planet, Jim, you are not wrong.

Jim’s skin warms, under Spock’s fingers, bruising, as Spock holds up a body that cannot stand, should not be standing. Feels the motions of Jim move under the weight of the  _wrong_. Similar to looking up from the weight of disastrous failure, a mind overthinking this one thing, unable to focus on anything else. The shift is minute, and Spock has not stopped whispering.

The wind blows as gentle, the warmth is as pleasant, Spock feels the pointer finger of his right hand break, he sees it break, angled sharply over Jim’s meld points, still connected.

Whispers, it is not Jim’s fault, had he stayed aboard the ship, the same would have occurred, the intelligent life forms, had only a goal, a single goal, Jim, the highest.

Spock closes his eyes, grimacing, the highest of these life forms, the most powerful, Jim, you are this to them, it is not your fault.

The pressure in Jim is strong, and Jim is strong, it took effort to make himself come to this place, and he still does not understand the pressure that manipulates his thoughts to such a degree that at its least is impressing on him ways to act, at its most sever subliminal control.

Jim’s moves against him, Spock opens his eyes, holds Jim back from the edge. Killing yourself will work Jim; however it is not the only way, please.

Spock knows this; he feels the pressure of the life forms at his mental shields, a continuous effort to break him, a form of anger at the failure to do so. All the psy-null individuals aboard the enterprise would not have noticed; would not have noticed the course their changed choices would have led them on. Their acquaintances, their friends would not have noticed, so transparent and light the mind control.

Whispers, focus on what you hear, Jim, let me help you. It is not your fault.

The burn of a mind is under Spock’s fingers, a pulse speeding up from catatonic, do not heed the wrongness, Jim, listen, it is not your fault, you do not have fend from it, let me—

Jim slumps against him, Spock groans, a blast of pressure, pushing, and Spock pulls— flying through air, landing harsh, Jim to his left, flat on his back.

Spock lies there gasping for air, his collar bone is broken. He turns to Jim, tries to lift himself, up; his legs are broken, gasping, fumbles for his comm unit. Where is it, where is it.

He looks back up to Jim, stirring, sees the comm strewn open between them. Drags himself closer, Jim opens his eyes, coughing, looking around, bare confusion.

Spock reaches the comm, slides to his elbow over it, next to Jim’s broken hand; he dials the signal, dark patches of unconsciousness blinking existence, “Beam us up.”

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: written in about an hour(bc i shouldnt've been writing in the first place) w a quick pace, and not many alterations afterwards)  
> (sweats nervously)  
> sort of inspired/influenced by naked time, also i know theres a tos ep where theres gaseous aliens or smth(implied in the fic)


End file.
